My Desolation

Sitting in the comfort
of my desolation.

A cushioned couch
for my consolation.

An inner world springs
forth, my creation.

Offered in awed silence
as my oblation.

***

Doodles and Korea

Prior to our current state of easily accessible art-making technology I was a frequent doodler.  It was something to pass the time in meetings or serve as mnemonic devices in my voluminous medical school notes.  Prior to that I had filled my Bible with little pictures in the margins as illustrations.

This week I was thinking about my time in Korea and trying to track down some of the groups I enjoyed while living there in 91’ through 93’ but could not find any on Apple Music or even Youtube.  It was probably a search problem with my Romanization of the Korean names not being recognized.

In this process of reminiscing I thought about the mixtapes I would make for Korean friends and a doodle came to mind.  It was my idea of a nonexistent record company that I created a variety of designs for to draw on those mixtapes called “호기심 RECORDS” which means “curiosity” in Korean.  

In my internet search I was at least able to find Kim Hyun Sik who was a tragic figure in Korean Pop culture of the time.  He sang melancholy tunes with a strained and gravely voice that projected emotional pain.  My Korean friends told me he died by drinking himself to death.  I listened and doodled.   

***

Shannon, Friend of Kevin, Artist

She is an artist, a friend of a friend who was also an artist and also happened to be my godson.  I met her through him back in my college days and after he died we shared stories of Kevin.  He was missed.  He was loved.  His heart and artistic vision were appreciated.

We continued on as friends through Facebook over the years.  I appreciated her insightful comments, especially when it had to do with my attempts at doing something artistic.  She became a single Mom of teenaged kids and worked hard to make a home for them.  

I admired her from afar as she struggled in a distant town, but then I realized just this past week that she had not commented on any of my posts in quite awhile and vice versa.  It was a Facebook memory with one of her comments that alerted me to the gap in communication.

I started reading the most recent posts on her account and a creeping dread mixed with sadness began to take hold.  Friends posting about missing her, about praying for her kids.  I messaged one of those friends who informed me Shannon had died in her sleep in February.

February!  I felt bad I hadn’t figured it out sooner.  She had gone to the ER not feeling well and was evaluated but then sent home.  Her kids found her in the morning, dead of an apparent heart attack, the subtle signs of female cardiac symptoms lost on a night shift ER staff.

But then today in the blue garage at work I noticed a peculiar sight.  Someone with a baby blue Lincoln Continental had custom-attached a blue-winged angel ornament on their hood.  It made me think of Shannon and her quirky artistic nature detaching itself from corporality.

***

The Magical Dobie Pad

 

A dream:

I handled the dirty dobie pad rotating it gingerly in my hand.  Someone had thrown it out, ignorant of its import.  What I had found was a mundane household object on the ground that inexplicably contained the power to grant one wish.

I suddenly had a very profound decision to make but would I make the right one?  Was I mature enough, smart enough, WISE enough to handle this magnitude of responsibility?  I seriously doubted it but then an idea came to me.

I would destroy this prickly sponge in a fire so that it would not fall into the wrong hands.  It was too much for me to think through how to utilize it.  I was somewhere in the country near a barn and a scrap pile where a trash fire was burning.

As I walked towards that fire I made a last-ditch effort to find some noble use for the one wish by wracking my brain but without success.  It made me mad, actually, and as I went to drop the sponge in the fire I blurted out, “I want to fly”!

So selfish, but too late to change it now.  I tested it out by floating straight up in the air about ten feet and then around the corner of the barn to where I found a country road.  I leaned forward to a horizontal position and rocketed off.

***

The Blues

 

The Blues sing to the soul

in deep emotional hues.

A transcendent force like 

taking the stairs by twos.

It is a melancholy medicine

healing with tragic trues.

A magnificent temple of 

worshipers empty of pews

(there can be no sitting 

when there’s so much to lose).

***

Fearful Symmetry

 My heart stays hidden 

in a small brick tower 

of fearful symmetry…

…afraid to face a world

that ignores my wishes 

even if they are selfish.

***

The Ultimate Measure

Who can truly fathom the
circumstances of life?
With so many branching
paths and soaring

sorrows that appear to 

accumulate and, sadly, 

self-perpetuate, too late?

Why am I here and he 

is there standing on the

graveled shoulder while

I sit secure in my ride?

Why must I decide what

he is to receive? Will I

gain a spiritual reprieve?

But can we simply agree

that nothing is free and 

love is a boundless 

treasure, the ultimate

measure of what is 

and what should be

to the greatest degree?